


The Sacrifice of Legacy

by walking_tornado



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, Bottom Sam, Breathplay, Comeplay, Incest, M/M, Ritual Sex, Rituals, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 18:16:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4190064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/walking_tornado/pseuds/walking_tornado
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"After Dean storms out, Henry offers to initiate Sam properly into The Men Of Letters. Sam wants it bad but first he must agree without knowing that the initiation involves very dark, very kinky blood and/or sexmagik and soulbinding." (prompt)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sacrifice of Legacy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VyperDD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VyperDD/gifts).



> Missing scene from 8.12. It takes place from when Dean leaves Sam and Henry in the motel room to when Sam wakes and finds Henry gone.
> 
> Written for the SPN_weirdnews 200th Edition Rarepair Fest.

_"Keep telling yourself that."_

With those words, Dean stormed out of the hotel room, leaving Henry sitting with his other grandson, the taller one, Sam. No one spoke, and soon the rumble of Dean's car faded. _"Glorified book club. . . "_ Of all the accusations Dean had leveled at him, it was that one phrase that bounced around his head, becoming louder and louder, until Henry put his head into his hands, trying to make it stop. 

Dean didn't understand. Neither of them did. And they had to—they were Legacies. 

Henry turned towards Sam and leaned forward, hoping Sam could read the truth in his eyes. "The Men of Letters is not a 'glorified book club,'" he said. "We are necessary. We stand guard over . . ." 

"Over?" Sam prompted, watching him intently from beneath the closed-off mask both he and his brother wore. 

Henry clenched his fists and inhaled. "I can't tell you." He saw Sam open his mouth, either to object or to threaten, and he hurried to continue. 

"How I caught you and your brother with the handcuffs earlier? That's child's play. The Men of Letters have power, Sam. And so do you. It's locked away now but . . . if you want I can begin the process of initiation. After the First Ritual, I would be allowed to teach you what I know." Henry didn't miss the interest in Sam's eyes. 

"You want me to be a Man of Letters?" Sam said. "And Dean?" 

Henry shook his head sadly. "The initiation process is long, and arduous, and requires a certain amount of trust. I doubt Dean would be willing." He studied Sam. It seemed that at least one of John's sons might be reclaimed from their horrendous upbringing. How his loving, gentle little Johnny could have produced these two barbarians . . . 

"Oh, Sam! The vast amount of knowledge!" Henry stared into Sam's eyes, hoping to ignite a passion for research, to see some sign that this one could share his enthusiasm. And yes, there it was. "More than you could possibly need, right there for the taking! A life dedicated to expanding our knowledge of the supernatural realm. Things you would never have dreamt possible!" 

He fingered the journal that lay on the table, and tapped it with a finger as he continued. "Haven't you or your brother ever asked yourselves, 'Why me? Why does all of this keep happening to us?'" Sam didn't answer but he nodded for Henry to continue. "It's the Legacy—because you are Legacies. You are meant to take up the mantle of the Men of Letters. Even dormant and uninitiated, it imbues your soul!"

"Imbues my soul?" Sam repeated. Sam raised an eyebrow and almost looked amused, and Henry's frustration with this horrible and completely unacceptable future world nearly boiled over. He tightened his eyes and resolutely put the thought aside. 

"I want to teach you the knowledge in my possession, but I cannot entrust it to anyone who hasn't begun the initiation. Right now you would not be recognized by—" He stood up, and the abrupt motion sent the chair scraping backwards. 

"Recognized by what?" Sam said with a raised voice, standing as well. "We're trying to help fix your mess, but we can't do if you won't tell us what's going on! You said Dean and I are legacies. Well, we need that information." 

"And that's what I can't give you!" Henry yelled. "Even Legacies must complete the First Ritual," Henry shook his head. "I cannot tell you what you ask." 

"Unless I complete the Initiation," Sam said, but Henry shook his head again. 

"No, only the First Ritual. It would be enough. There are numerous levels—even I have not finished the last step thanks to Abaddon. But I do know the rituals, and I believe a ritual led by me will be equally binding, despite the unorthodox presentation. The First Ritual of the Initiate should be performed by the senior chapter leader, but . . . well, we'll work with what we have. Sam, your father should have been of the Letters, as should you. It would be my honor to be able to pass along what I know." 

"Yes, I want to do the first ritual, and then you tell me anything Dean and I need to know. What do I have to do?" 

Henry sighed and wished for another more palatable option; the hunter lifestyle had branded his grandsons so deeply . . . 

"I can't tell you. The first step is trusting the those already Initiated into the Mysteries. You must trust me." When Sam only looked at him, he knew he had failed. 

He was startled by Sam's next quiet words. "Okay. I trust you. You're my grandfather." 

Henry beamed with pride. This one was a Winchester, through and through. "It requires little preparation on your part," he said quickly. "While I gather the supplies, please wash your face and hands." 

***

Ten minutes later, Sam and Henry stood face-to-face in the center of the motel room. The table and chairs had been pushed aside. Henry slipped the thin paper covering off the complimentary motel drinking glass with a grimace, but it had to be glass and the options were limited. He felt a twinge of guilt at absconding with another's property; the glass certainly wouldn't be fit to leave here when they were through. With Abaddon on the loose and Dean certain to be back soon, there was simply no time to be fiddly. 

Henry placed the blade edge of his knife onto the meat of his palm, and looked Sam in the eyes. "Are you sure this is what you want?" 

"Yes." 

"There's no changing your mind once we start this." Sam raised his eyebrows and let his silence speak for him. "Okay. When I hand you the knife you must add your blood to the chalice." They both paused for a beat as they looked at the juice glass Henry held, but neither commented. "Then," Henry continued. "You must say 'I pledge myself to the Letters,' and I will start the ritual." Sam gave a short nod and no more. How his own grandchildren could have fallen so far from the tree . . . He tightened his eyes and resolutely put the thought aside. He would play the hand he was dealt. 

"Blood leads to blood. Family blood, the blood of comrades in arms," Henry began. Damnation! It would be much easier if Sam could grasp the monumental import of what he would be a part of, but Henry couldn't read Sam's face, and had no way to tell what the man was thinking. This felt like handing a toddler the keys to the family car and sending him to buy groceries. "Family blood led you to us," he said, as his knife bit deep and crimson drops painted the bottom of the glass. "This blood we share as Men of Letters, and with it we extend to you the invitation to join us." 

Henry turned the knife around and offered it to Sam, hilt-first. Without hesitation, Sam accepted it, slit his palm, and let his blood join Henry's. 

"I pledge myself to the Letters." 

Henry allowed himself a small smile of pride. The legacy would continue. He closed his eyes and spoke the ritual opening. From Sam's frown, he appeared unfamiliar with the language. No matter; he would learn. Henry snapped his mouth closed on the final syllable and his hand surged forward to grip Sam's chin. With two shouted words Sam collapsed, and Henry calmly began his true preparations. 

Henry strode to the side of the room searched Sam and Dean's belongings. He felt around Dean's and pulled out bottles of toothpaste, shaving cream, bug repellant, and finally lubricant. Henry paused at this last one and then continued searching until he found what he'd been looking for. He returned to the circle with Dean's gun oil, rope, duct tape, and a shoelace taken from his own shoe. 

Henry removed the rest of Sam's clothes, tossing them onto the bed with the shirt Sam had pulled off earlier. With the rope, he arranged Sam on his back in the center of the floor. It took more time than he'd have liked to truss Sam into the right position, but when he'd finished, Sam had both arms immobile, with his knees up and spread, leaving him open for what was to come. 

Then Henry began tracing a circle around Sam: a specific pattern of letters written in a single, unbroken, circular line of blood. Enochian, lesser demon dialects, even a couple extinct human languages provided words of power. The disparate words, letters and symbols invoked the protections of many warring entities, but the specific combinations and patterns ensured a harmonious interaction. It was the single most awe-inspiring bit of spell work Henry had ever encountered and it was this working of the letters that lent the society its name. By the time the first ritual was complete, the magical defenses used in any men of letters safe-house would recognize Sam, and allow him entry into anywhere in the world. Sam would also be bound against divulging the secrets he learned, and any attempt to do so would be painful and eventually fatal. 

When Henry joined the last of the letters to the beginning, the circle flashed with an eerie green pulse that reassured Henry that he had completed the complicated inscriptions correctly. Henry was feeling somewhat weak when he finished, and he hoped that he had the strength for what he needed to do. He looked on the still form of his grandson, and was grateful that he had only just met him and had formed no attachment. His own blood . . . What he was about to do would have been unforgiveable were he not obliged into the role as the most senior Man of Letters present. 

He sat back on his heels and looked at Sam, bound and naked in the circle. Strong, fit, lean—from an aesthetic standpoint, his grandson was stunning. Henry undid the buttons of his trousers, removed a leg at a time, and then tugged off each sock, and all the time he watched Sam. He wondered at the scars he saw—wondered what this man had seen in his life. Henry was under no false illusions: his grandsons had seen more horror than he could imagine, and their experience had not been tempered by knowledge, by vision, or by any sort of cohesive plan. Sam needed to be part of something bigger—nothing had ever been clearer to Henry, and he would do this for Sam. He would put aside his socially prescribed aversion to what was obviously necessary. 

Sam's eyelids twitched, and Henry knew he had to hurry; the next part would be easier with the paralysis spell intact. The rest of the ritual was . . . not particularly pleasant. 

Naked, Henry straddled Sam and withdrew a tiny penknife from his pocket. It was too small for most things, and was rarely used in order to maintain the razor's edge for workings such as this. Henry's first cut was too light and the next one too deep, which brought up a quick welling of blood from under Sam's nipple. With a shake of his head to clear away unwanted thoughts, Henry's next cuts were perfect, light enough to just barely draw blood. He picked up speed as he carved symbols, and by the time he was done, Sam's chest was a mess of thin red weeping lines. 

When he sat up straight to evaluate his handiwork, he could feel the give of Sam's soft cock against the crack of his ass. Movement caught his attention and he glanced up to see Sam's occasional blink: slow, not quite awake, but getting there. Henry reached forward and gently pushed a strand of hair out of Sam's face. 

"Blood is the key, but it's not enough," Henry said and he scooted backwards. The others would have laughed at him for indulging in useless explanations with a ritual subject. Maybe one would have offered a little dig and called him a show-off, maybe another would have chuckled at the waver in his voice that betrayed his nerves. But they were dead now, to a man, so it hardly mattered. Perhaps it would reassure Sam to be offered some tidbit about why this was happening. It certainly would have reassured Henry, that first time, facing the roomful of robed men that participated in his own First Ritual. 

"The next step," Henry continued, "binds the call into your children and ensures the legacy is passed on. It's for the greater good, Sam. It will ensure that there will always be someone to fight the darkness." The irony of this statement, after he'd inscribed demonic ruins on Sam's chest, was not lost on Henry. 

Henry placed both hands on Sam's bloody chest and swept them around and down in wide arcs, smearing red everywhere. Then he cupped his own cock in both hands, smearing Sam's blood over it. As he slowly jerked himself, using first one hand then the other, to ensure an even distribution of Sam's blood, he closed his eyes and whispered a short incantation. He could see the brightness of the circle's flare even through his closed eyelids, but when he opened them, the light had subsided, and his cock was engorged and ready. It stood at attention, batting the top of his stomach as he moved into position. Awake now, though still under the spell's waning influence, Sam stared at him from wide, frightened eyes. 

"You didn't think I would only use blood?" Henry said, as he slathered oil over his cock. As he fisted himself, the oil mingled with the tacky blood. "We're not animals, Sam. But we do what needs to be done." With no further warning he thrust two of his slicked fingers into Sam's anus, forcing them to the knuckle. Sam whimpered and Henry knew the enforced paralysis would dissipate soon. He scissored his fingers, once, twice, twirled them around, then withdrew. The tip of his cock pressed in. Sam shuddered. 

"I know," Henry said gently. And he thrust, hard and deep. Sam screamed. Henry withdrew part-way grabbed the duct tape he'd set nearby, taken from Dean's bag against this possibility, and slapped a piece over Sam's mouth to muffle his cries. Then he thrust in again, pressing forward with all his weight until he was fully inside Sam. 

"It's okay," Henry said, breathless, and wiped a trail of tears from Sam's face. "We'll get through this quickly." 

The pace Henry set was brutal. Sam's nose flared and his eyes rolled back, as Henry pistoned into him. Henry hoped that he would hold on and not pass out; his participation would be required soon. Henry's breathing became ragged and he broke out of the punishing rhythm. With a final ram home, Henry stiffened and unloaded into Sam with small, forceful pumps. He sagged down onto Sam and when he lifted off, the drying blood on Sam's chest pulled at the small hairs on his own. His cock slipped wetly out of Sam, and Henry slid down, pulled the globes of Sam's ass apart to display his used hole. Henry whispered an bastardized chant—Enochian in origin but mixed in with parts of an early European fertility rite—and then he placed his mouth to Sam's hole and proceeded to suck out as much of come as he could. This he dribbled into the blood-encrusted motel juice glass that was passing as a chalice tonight. 

"Soon," he said to Sam. Henry was still breathing heavily from his exertions and a sheen of sweat covered his body. He ripped the tape from Sam's mouth. Sam eyes were shocky but open. "Almost done," Henry continued. "I just need your contribution now." 

Henry prodded the cut on his palm until it bled freely once more. He tilted his hand so that the blood ran down his thumb and then rubbed his thumb in a circle around Sam's slack lips in imitation of the Babylonian mouth-washing ceremony done on statues. The chant he used borrowed elements of that Babylonian ritual, spliced together with a spattering of Lithuanian, and held together structurally by a demonic plainsong. With his bleeding hand, Henry held Sam's soft cock, which began to glow until it reached its brightest. The light shining through Henry's hand made it appear bright red. In step with the dying of the light, Sam's cock hardened, peeking out from Henry's fist and forcing his fingers apart as it grew. Before the light had faded completely, Henry grasped his own depleted erection alongside Sam's and began jerking both of them even as Sam tried to squirm away from him. Henry could feel the tingling of the spell remnants on his own cock as he hardened once again. 

When the spell's light had faded, Henry took one of the shoelaces he'd removed from his shoes and tied it around Sam's cock and balls. _Over, under, pull it tight, make a bow_ — It was only yesterday that he'd heard John's singsong as he'd tied his shoes. John was so young and Henry had left him without a father. Irresponsible. And now this . . . Henry shut his eyes tight as he forced away the recriminations. He couldn't finish this if he let himself be distracted like that. When he opened his eyes, he saw a tidy bow adorning the side of Sam's veined erection. A drop of precum leaked from the tip and his balls seemed to pop out as they reddened. John's son. 

Sam was struggling now. Henry had tied him securely, but he hadn't made it tight enough to prevent all movement. Given a lot of time, Sam would be able to free himself. He couldn't move much, but his squirming was making it take longer than it needed to be. Henry made a note to himself to take that time if such a situation ever reoccurred. As Henry's fingers approached Sam's hole once more, Sam tried to twist his hips away. 

"Enough!" Henry said. He struck a fist to the anterior nerve cluster on Sam's upper leg. Sam yelled, but the leg stopped moving. 

"Get off me you sick fuck!" Sam shouted. 

Henry reached up and gripped Sam's throat. 

"You agreed to this, Sam," Henry reminded him. "Trust." He tightened his hold, restricting Sam's airway even as he shoved two fingers into Sam's slick entrance. 

Henry's eyes never left Sam's reddening face. He crooked his fingers, found what he was looking for and began a tight massage. A moment later, he eased his grip, allowing Sam a gasping breath before Henry closed off his air again, continuing the stimulation. After a few repetitions, the glassy look in Sam's eyes was back. And Henry knew it was time. 

He released his hold on Sam's throat, replaced his fingers with his cock, and slotted himself into Sam. 

"This is it," he said, as he began thrusting. "Can you feel it yet? This link between you and something so much greater. This privilege we've been granted . . . there's—" Henry's hips pistoned even as he searched for the right words to encapsulate the experience. "There's nothing to rival it. The responsibility." Thrust. "The power." Thrust. "The knowledge." Thrust. "It is worth dying for, Sam." 

Sam's mouth moved as though he were trying to form words amid Henry's battering but couldn't quite manage it. 

"So close!" Henry voice broke on the words as he clung by fingertips to his control. The timing. It was everything. 

Henry released the shoestring bow constricting Sam's cock and testicles, then his hand shot up to press one last time against his windpipe. Sam's eyes stared, wide and panicked, and his mouth gaped in a futile attempt to get air. 

Henry knew the feeling: the confusion of conflicting pain and pleasure, the need to move, to breathe and the inability to do so, the rush of adrenaline, the terror of the unknown. And finally, the peace of complete capitulation. 

Henry's thrusts became shorter, faster, deeper, and his hand stripped Sam's angry, engorged cock in time with his movements. Sam's eyes rolled back. In Henry's hand, Sam's cock flared and Henry threw back his head with a yell as he let his own climax overtake him in concert with Sam's. 

He shot staggered pulses into Sam, even as Sam shot over his chest. The ruins etched into Sam's chest throbbed with each drop of Sam's come. With each rocking pulse into Sam, Henry felt the tingling warmth of the transference. A changing of the guard, a renewal. He filled Sam with the endowment of the Letters as Sam released his old allegiance. Sam would now be given access to any of the Men of Letters strongholds, without triggering the protective spells. When he was spent, Henry sagged down, and let his hand fall away from Sam's throat. 

Sam didn't move. 

Henry allowed himself time to catch his breath before he slowly withdrew from his grandson. He didn't suck out his seed this time, and simply let it seep out of Sam. He took the glass and scooped up Sam's release from his chest, tinted pink by the blood. Then he placed the glass aside and checked Sam's vital signs. No breath, no pulse. Expected. 

Henry took his ritual knife, and cut off the ropes that held Sam trussed open. He tossed them away, and Henry prepared to complete the soul-binding which would ensure that Sam would not reveal their secrets. 

The snick of a key heralded the door opening. The chain lock caught the motion with a bouncing bang. 

"Sam?" Dean called. 

Oh damnation! Henry pinched his lips in frustration. He needed more time. 

"Sam!" From that angle, Henry doubted Dean could have seen very much, but whatever it was had been enough. The door burst open with a crack as the chain lock was ripped off by the force of Dean's kick. 

"No!" Henry cried. But Dean didn't listen. He shoved Henry aside and barreled into the ritual space like an angered ape, knocking over the glass and all its contents, traipsing over the lines Henry had painstakingly formed, drop by bloody drop. 

"What the—Sam!" Dean's hurt, panicked cry when he saw his brother lying motionless in a heap hit Henry like a punch to the gut, which he was certain Dean would be delivering shortly. Sam would not wake unless he finished. 

Henry quickly righted the bowl, scraping what he could of the mingled blood and semen, now cold, from the carpet. Maybe. Maybe it would be enough. He closed his eyes, and with a muttered incantation, he gulped down the contents. Henry had a moment of panic, where he was certain that he had missed something, that he had flubbed one of the steps, or that the hunter's interference had guaranteed Sam's death. Then the letters of the protective circle began to glow with dispersed light. The light intensified and coalesced into a single beam that shot into Sam Winchester's body. On its way into Sam, the light impaled Dean who sat cradling his brother's body. Sam screamed, which, considering he'd been dead, was most promising. Both hunters arched back, their bodies rigid, and when the light vanished, both collapsed. 

Henry lugged each man to their own bed, after carefully examining Sam to ensure that all wounds had been healed and dressing Sam in the clothes Henry had removed. No trace of the ritual remained on his body. The light of the completion had even burned away the blood markings on the carpet. 

It was clear that the ritual had partially worked, since Henry felt no compulsion against revealing the secrets of the Letters to Sam. But—more troubling—Henry also felt no prohibition against telling Dean. 

If Dean were recognised by the protections, without having directly taken part in the binding ritual . . . Henry shook his head as he looked at them. It was possible that the final spell that Dean interrupted, meant to seal Sam to the Letters, had instead created a bond between the brothers. Such a soul-bond would allow the Protections to recognise Dean as if he were Sam. The situation would need to be watched closely. Unbound hunters given free rein to the repositories of knowledge . . . it didn't bear thinking. 

It would have been better had he never interfered, Henry thought. Better had he let those men continue blundering about in their ignorance. Fortunately, short-term memories formed during a traumatic event were easily mutable. It was quickly done. 

The hunters' journal —his journal—lay on the table and Henry reached over to trace the cover. His initials decorated the inside, but he's never used it—it had instead been used by his son who'd thought himself abandoned, who had never been initiated into the Men of Letters and who had paid the ultimate price for his father's failure. 

While Sam and Dean slowly shifted from unconsciousness into true sleep, Henry read John's words. Half-way through, he could stomach no more, and when he closed the journal his decision was firm. This was his mess to fix, all of it. Leaving a hastily scribbled note, he left his grandchildren asleep on their motel beds, and set forth to change his son's future. With any luck, this version of the future would never exist.

End


End file.
